


Magic and Bees

by angelica_church_schuyler



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Gob Bluth, Gen, Gob is bipolar and Tobias was a psychiatrist, Mental Health Issues, lowkey therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelica_church_schuyler/pseuds/angelica_church_schuyler
Summary: "Some pesky little part of Tobias’ brain that he hadn’t really flexed in quite some time - most likely one of the neural structures involved in explicit memory, something near the temporal lobe, perhaps his hippocampus? - started whirring."Tobias, against all the odds, notices something odd yet familiar about Gob's behaviour.





	1. Increased talkativeness

**Author's Note:**

> Important disclaimer: I do not have bipolar disorder, nor am I a trained professional in anything even vaguely psychology related. I'm a history major, I just took a psychology class in high school.  
> Some sources I've used in writing this fic include the writings of Carrie Fisher (especially Shockaholic and Wishful Drinking), the documentary The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive (which can be found on youtube), and the book Mind Race by Patrick E. Jamieson. The Crash Course video on mood disorders is really good too.

Michael just doesn’t get magic.  
Whether it’s illusion-magic or magic-magic, Gob just cannot make his younger brother understand.  
Part of that may be that he’s magic right now so his thoughts are racing and his speech is a little jumbled, but it’s mostly Michael’s total un-magicness.

“So, it’s like....the world is magic,” Gob begins his fourth explanation that night. “The world, everything in it, all the people and the lights and the smells and the sounds and the Bruce Springsteen records and the trees are all magic. But I’m the only one who can see it because I’m magic. None of the rest of you are magic - no offence - so you just can’t see it. But I can see it. I can feel it. I can feel the magic. It’s everywhere. It’s like it’s-i-it-it’s like it’s in my body, like under my skins and in my organs and shit. Except inside me, it feels like...like...li-like…”

He pauses for a second, searching his buzzing thoughts for the right words.

“Buzz. Buzz. Bees! There are bees in my organs and just under my skin and they’re buzzing, they’re vibrating, and that’s why I can’t sleep, see, ‘cause the bees don’t sleep, so how can I sleep, ya know?”  
“How long has it been since you last slept?”  
“I don’t know, like a week? Look, that’s not the point, the point is the magic! It makes me better! I could do anything right now, it wouldn’t fucking matter. I drove here, I didn’t pay attention to the street signs or anything. I could jump off the balcony and get right back up again. I could fly up, ‘cause of the bees, see? It’s magic. How many times do I have to explain this? You’ve gotta get it now, Mikey, come on!”

Michael still looks confused.  
“The magic...and the...what did you say, the bees? Are they always...there?”

Gob couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course not, Michael, can’t expect them to stay around forever. The bees under my skin usually start to get a little annoying after a while and I get a little testy and then...then they go.”  
He stares at his brother expectantly. Michael was always slow when Gob was magic. In fact, everyone kinda was.

Michael stared back, before whispering the most Michael sentence Gob had ever heard him say.]  
“You’re on _drugs_? At Mom and Dad’s _anniversary_? What the hell is wrong with you, Gob?”

Why did Michael always jump to drugs?

“What? No, it’s not drugs, Mikey, it’s magic. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time!”

He shouldn’t have tried to tell anyone. A magician never reveals his secrets. The Alliance would frown on this. 15-year-old Gob, when the magic first started, would frown on this. It was meant to be a secret, no one can know, it’s not _normal_ , you have to be _normal_. Pretend it’s not there, keep it secret, keep it safe, or get it the fuck out of your head.  
And of course, it would eventually get out of his head. The magic would drain and the bees would die and all that was left was Gob. Plain old Gob. And the feeling that the world would never be magical again, so why even stick around? The bees are dead, Gob, your whole body is empty, what’s the fucking point?

When he was 17 the loss of the magic was particularly brutal. It had been around for a really long time, the longest it had ever been, at _least_ three months. When it left, the world was so un-magical it was practically black and white. Everything was dark and grey, and lonely, and numb, and he couldn't get out of bed, he _physically_ couldn't move. It was so much of nothing he couldn't stand it. He'd stood at the edge of the penthouse's balcony, walking up and down the railing just like he'd done with the magic. But the magic didn't come back. There was still an overwhelming, drowning sense of nothing. Falling off the balcony would have ended it if the next floor down didn't also have a balcony. Instead of stopping the nothing, there was more nothing, but with a cast on one arm, a sling on the other, and the knowledge that his mother had paid off the doctors to keep him out of the psych ward. Michael had assumed he had fallen off the balcony because he was high. Gob had never corrected him.

Gob preferred it when the magic was around.


	2. Decreased sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobias notices some troubling behaviour at a Bluth family party, and gets into character as his old psychiatrist self in order to do something about it.

Tobias had only come to this little Bluth-iversary shindig in an attempt to win back Lindsay’s favour, and maybe cheer himself up a little bit. He’d been a bit blue - and not in colour - lately what with his wife being so busy with her campaign and his daughter being...well, wherever Maeby was. She was always such an independent little girl. Bluth get-togethers were always entertaining, and rife with codendepence, insecurity, narcissism, Oedipal issues, and other fascinating psychological phenomena. He would use all of this in his later acting career, of course.  
This particular blowout contained all of that, as well as an added hint of alcoholism and repressed homosexuality. As the party began to wind down, and Tobias relaxed on a sofa, he couldn’t help but overhear snippets of a conversation that was both stimulating and awakening.

“...it’s like magic…”  
“...I’m the only one who can see it, because I’m magic…”  
“...that’s why I can’t sleep…”  
“...I could jump off the balcony and get right back up again…”  
“...you’re on drugs…”

Some pesky little part of Tobias’ brain that he hadn’t really flexed in quite some time - most likely one of the membranes involved in explicit memory, something near the temporal lobe, perhaps his hippocampus? - started whirring.

Inflated self esteem.  
Increased talkativeness.  
Decreased sleep.  
Increased interest in high-risk and goal-oriented activities.  
Sustained abnormal mood.

Magic.  
Manic.

The DSM requires the presence of a sustained abnormal mood, usually one of euphoria or irritability, as well as three of four symptoms listed for the diagnosis of a manic episode, which usually then led to a diagnosis of some form of bipolar disorder.

It also required the symptoms to be present for at least a week, and now that Tobias thought about it, Gob had often appeared manic around him, and some of his actions and words certainly pointed towards periods of depression as well.

Tobias couldn’t help but wonder whether ex-doctors still have to follow the Hippocratic oath. Was he also bound by morality to tell Gob his suspicions about his mental health? Was just mentioning it indulging a conflict of interest because Gob was his brother-in-law? Were there doctor-patient confidentiality laws at play here? He could be wrong, it had been a long time since he’d been a psychiatrist, or even a theralyst for that matter. And he hadn’t studied mood disorders in as much depth as some of his colleagues.

Then again, actors playing doctors didn't have to follow the Hippocratic oath, or worry about conflicts of interest, or even matters of privacy.

Before he had the chance to fully prepare for this unexpected piece of method acting, Gob abruptly stood up and announced to no one in particular that he was leaving, and Tobias saw his opening.

“I’ll come with you!”  
His oldest brother-in-law stared at him. “What?”  
“I mean, I’d be happy to drive you home! You’ve probably had too much to drink, anyway, and it’s not like either of us are too out of the way.”

Come to think of it, Tobias had no idea where Gob was staying. He never seemed to stay in one place for very long.

Tobias was pulling Gob out the door before he could protest, loading him into the car, deciding that he himself had had too much to drive, and before they knew it Gob was driving them...somewhere.

Dr Tobias Funke had a PhD in Psycholinguistics from MIT. But the up-and-coming actor Tobias Funke wasn’t really sure how to start this particular exchange of linguistics regarding psychology. 

“So…” he started, before pausing, considering his next move.  
Best to just rip off the bandaid in one quick strip. “I heard you talking to Michael earlier.”  
“What about?” Gob replied, despite his obvious distraction.  
Easily distracted, another symptom.  
“Magic. And bees.”

Gob looked at Tobias, a look in his eyes Tobias didn’t quite recognise.

“Do you...get what I was saying?”  
“You mean, did I, on some level, understand what you were trying to say?”

Gob nodded, still driving without his eyes on the road.

“Yes, I did,” Tobias replied, adding “I’ve never experienced it, but I have some idea what you mean. Why don’t you look at the road, buddy?”  
“Let me get this straight. You don’t...you don’t _feel_ the magic, but...you _know_ about it?”  
“Yes, in a way. Although...Gob, why don’t you pull over?”

As Gob pulled over onto the side of a road Tobias didn’t recognise, Tobias attempted to get back into his therapist character.

“I think we should just call a duck a duck, Gob,” Therapist!Tobias suggested.  
“What? I’ve never heard someone say that, what does that mean?”  
“It means that we’ll be naked and transparent, and say what we mean.”  
Gob paused.

“I think the expression is ‘let’s call a spade a spade’.”  
Oh wow, he was delusional too. Perhaps this case was worse than Tobias had realised.  
“Well, whatever it is. I think we should talk about something.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Gob, I wonder -”  
Gob started. “Who said anything about Tony Wonder? I didn't bring him up, you brought him up! What are you, in love with him or something?”  
Gob’s nervous laughter filled the car and Tobias made a mental note to avoid the word “wonder”.

“Well, anyhoo...have you ever heard of bipolar disorder?”  
The confusion on Gob’s face was answer enough.

“Bipolar disorder is a mood disorder, characterised by periods of mania often followed by periods of depres-”  
“I’m not crazy,” Gob interjected.  
“I never said you were crazy,” Therapist!Tobias replied. “Having an illness such as bipolar disorder does not a crazy person make. Someone being diagnosed bipolar would simply mean they have an illness caused, in part, by a chemical imbalance in the brain.”  
“I’m not sick, either. I don’t get sick.”

Therapist!Tobias would have kicked Actor!Tobias in the face if it were physically possible. Gob was manic. He wouldn’t believe he was unwell.

“You don’t get sick when you’re magic?”  
“If you’re trying to say that my magic is some...some...some...so...if it...it...it…should...sho-should...sh...sh...”

Gob stopped. He stared vacantly at a spot just above the steering wheel.

“Get the fuck out of my car.”

Well, Tobias thought, he had made a noble effort.  
“Well, alright then. But Gob - call me when the magic runs out. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

As Gob sped off, Tobias began to think that leaving a man having a manic episode to himself in a fast car on a cold night was not his best move. But, eventually, the “magic” would run out. It always did. And Tobias would slip back into his therapist pants and try again.

But first he had to find a way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tobias is surprisingly hard to write for. I don't have that much gay innuendo in my system.  
> Another disclaimer: I'm not a psychiatrist or any sort of mental health professional. I took psychology in high school but now I'm a history major minoring in sociology so I'm not even close to being an expert on these things.


	3. Feelings of worthlessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magic runs out.

Not long after Gob got home that night, the magic started to drain away.  
The bees died.  
Gob slept for 18 hours straight.

When he finally woke, he felt the familiar emptiness in his stomach where the magic used to be, and the unnerving calm where he was sure bee corpses lay littered under his skin.

Tobias’ idea that he was sick kept ringing through his head. Lying there, feeling heavy and numb, the idea kinda made sense. But then again, a familiar part of his brain whispered, what if you can’t get out of bed because you’re lazy? What if your mind feels foggy because of brain damage after one too many self-roofies? You just feel worthless because you are worthless. 

The voice sounded oddly like his mother, but that was an issue for another time.

His phone rang (why was his ringtone still ‘Getaway’? Why the fuck hadn’t he changed it yet?) and he ignored it.

The bottomless despair pit he was currently facing down was pretty familiar. He’d been here before. He was kinda sick of it, but on some level he’d known it was coming. The Simon and Garfunkel song exhausting the record player in his mind was once again on repeat, and it felt like it would never switch to the next goddamn song.

After god knows how many hours (days? Weeks? months?) of lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, Gob picked up his phone.

And then promptly threw it across the room.

He’d had the thought of calling Tony, but why would Tony want to talk to him? Tony was...well, he was wonderful. He was _way_ too good for Gob. Successful and good-looking and smart and _same_. 

But they weren’t same, not really. Gob might have done an okay job of convincing him they were, for a while, but how long did Tony Wonder usually spend lying in bed in a model home wanting to jump off a bridge but not having the energy to find one?

This bottomless pit wasn’t as dark as the last one. Sure, he wanted to die, but after a while he managed to muster up the energy to walk to the bathroom. Lying on the cool tiles while the boiling hot shower fogged up the windows and mirrors...well, it didn't help. But it didn’t hurt. 

Sometimes when he had these bad days (or weeks, or months), it felt like one of those Chinese finger traps he used to trick Buster into getting trapped in when they were kids. The more you pull, the worse it gets. Better to just let it run its course. If you’re lucky, you’ll get out. If you’re not...you’ll get out a different way. Sometimes a more violent way, a way that ends with some blood and your little brother screaming and your mom being really, _really_ mad at you.

Bad example.

His phone rang in the other room. He ignored it again.

The person who had called him twice today started to leave a voicemail, and Gob thought he heard Tobias’ voice, asking about last night, about mental disorders and bees and magic.

Well, newsflash, Tobias.  
Gob’s not sick. Bees are nearing extinction, and magic isn’t real.

 

The phone kept ringing. All. Fucking. Day.

Every few calls, Tobias would leave an annoyingly chipper message about “just wanting to check in on my favourite brother-in-law”. Blatant lies. How could Gob be Tobias’ favourite brother-in-law when Michael, and even Buster, existed? 

As the day went on, the voicemails started to get more worried. Less “just wanted to check in” and more “did you get home okay?” Less “favourite brother-in-law” and more “are you dead?”

Gob kinda pitied the poor guy. It was a useless endeavour. But he guessed Tobias was used to that, since he was still trying to work on his and Lindsay’s marriage. Poor guy.

It was out of this sense of pity for the poor little blue guy that Gob picked up Tobias’ next call.

“Gob!” Tobias practically squealed into his ear. “So good to hear from you! How are you?”  
Gob shrugged before realising Tobias couldn’t see him. “‘M alright. You?”  
“Uh, I’m wonderful. Did you get...home alright?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Fantastic.”

Gob was silent, waiting for the sentence he knew would come.

“So, about last night…”  
“What about it?”  
“What we talked about. Your feelings about...about magic, and my...hunch.”  
“Right. You said to call you.”  
“Yes, well, I wasn’t going to call you, I just wasn’t sure whether you’d gotten home alright.”  
“I did.”  
“Yes, of course.”  
“I’m gonna go now.”  
“Gob, wait!”

Gob waited.  
He heard Tobias take a deep breath.  
“Just tell me, honestly: How are you feeling?”

It had been a long time since someone had asked him that question and meant it. Some doctors and nurses had asked when he had syphilis, but that was really just about whether or not he was dying. Michael had asked once, but that was about whether he was nervous about a big show. The last time it was sincere, the last time someone had really truly wanted to know how he was really feeling, was when he woke up in a hospital bed as a teenager and a doctor asked him how he was feeling, before asking how he’d “fallen off” the penthouse balcony. That had been a really, _really_ deep, dark, despair pit. 

“You really want to know?”  
“I do.”  
“Why?”  
“I want to help you.”  
“Bullshit.”

Judging by Tobias’ silence, that wasn’t the best thing to say. But to be fair, Gob was a Bluth. He’d never known someone who wanted to help someone else out just because. Even Michael only helped people to feed his own sense of moral superiority.

But Tobias wasn’t a Bluth, not really.

Maybe he really did want to help. 

“Tobias? You still there?:  
“Still here.”

Still there. 

 

“If I’m being honest, man...I feel kinda terrible.”


	4. Reduced ability to think or concentrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobias and Gob have a conversation about feelings.

“To be perfectly clear,” Gob interrupted before Tobias had the chance to say anything. “I don’t think I’m sick. There’s nothing wrong with me, like, medically speaking. I just feel kinda bad.”

The fact that Gob had even shared with him the fact that he was feeling “kinda bad” was a small victory for which Tobias was grateful. On the other hand, his experience in the field of psychology had taught him that there was no helping someone who didn’t believe there was anything wrong. So mission number one was to get Gob to admit there was a problem. And he knew exactly how.

His improv and method acting experience had taught him that the real gold came out when you built upon what the other person had already said.

“Yes, and...why do you feel bad? Did something happen?”

Gob seemed to think for a second.

“No. It’s just...I know you don’t believe in the whole magic thing, but I...it’s...when the magic goes away, when it stops...well, it...it feels bad.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Tobias couldn’t help but notice that Gob used the word “kinda” a lot, which he guessed was indicative of a larger problem. He wasn’t sure what the larger problem was yet, but it was probably there.

He vaguely remembered something in his thesis about how identifying what words a person often could help identify their mental state and therefore help with their care, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. He’d have to dig it out one of these days and look over it. Maybe it would help with the autobiographical screenplay he was writing. 

“Tobias? You still there?”  
“Yes! Of course! Sorry, um...so you’ve told me that you feel bad…”

How does one expand on the phrase “I feel kinda bad” to create a comedy masterpiece? Gob was really the worst improv partner he’d ever had. Worse than everyone at the Method One clinic.

Rule Number Two of Improv Comedy: Specificity.

“Gob, when you say you feel bad, can you be more specific? How do you feel?”  
“Ummmm....I don’t really know.”  
“Are you sad?”  
“Yes.”  
“Tired?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you fe-”  
“I feel kinda numb,” Gob interrupted, once again. Any good improv-er knows that no matter how good your idea is you wait for the other person to finish, but Gob was inexperienced in the performance department so Tobias decided to let it slide.  
“Numb, that’s interesting.”  
“I guess. I feel kind of....I just….don’t want to do anything. I can’t...It’s not so bad right now, but sometimes I feel like I can’t move. Like I’ll wake up, and I know I have places to be, or I know I just need to get out of bed at some point, but I just...can’t. I’m tired. I don’t wanna eat, or sometime I eat way too much and then I feel really bad about it, and I’m….nothing interests me, you know? I don’t want to do stuff I’d usually want to do. I don’t know, it’s weird. I’m just weird. Sorry, man...Look, I should probably go…”

 _Textbook_ depression. Almost every symptom listed by the DSM V. Tobias could not believe he’d never noticed it before.

“Gob, listen to me. I know you don’t believe you’re sick. I know you just think this is who you are, but I really don’t think it is. Everything you’ve said to me, about this and about the magic, is _exactly_ what bipolarity is. And I _know_ this stuff, Gob, I was a psychiatrist, for god’s sake! I mean, before I spent years becoming the aspiring actor you see today I spent six years at medical school, a year specialising in psychiatry, and then another year of fellowship at MIT. Please just _consider_ listening to me.”

Gob was silent for quite some time. Tobias knew he hadn’t hung up, he could still just hear him breathing. 

“You say you think this is just who you are. When did it start? How long has it been going on?”

Gob paused again before answering. 

“I’ve always been kind of...moody, I guess. But...the...the magic...and the...lack thereof didn’t really start until I was...I wanna say 15?”  
“Most people start experiencing symptoms as teenagers or young adults. So this was the first time?”  
“That I can remember, yeah. Tobias, I appreciate this, really, and I…”

Tobias heard his brother-in-law move the phone away from his face, but he could still hear him sigh.

“I think...maybe… _maybe_...you could be onto something. But I...can you give me a little bit of time to just...think about it? I’m getting kinda tired.”

It had been so long since someone had told Tobias he might be onto something. 

Gob was a difficult case. He’d dealt with this for decades on his own, taking the whole thing for granted. An admission, even one as slight as this, that something could be wrong was a win in Tobias’ eyes.  
So he let Gob go, knowing that he would have to chase him down again, but knowing that he was a very determined man, and no amount of chasing would discourage him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will go somewhere one of these days, I promise.  
> Also, I just finished reading A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara and everything hurts so this is how I'm coping.


	5. Thoughts of death or suicide, or a suicide attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gob reflects on his turbulent teenage years.  
> Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and a suicide attempt. Mentions of needles and hospitals.

Looking back at it, Gob had had his first episodes as a teenager. He’d also had some of his worst episodes as a teenager. He would have thought that it would have gotten worse, but his brain had seemed to mellow a little as he got older. Of course, it still wasn’t what most people would actually call “mellow”, and the last 20-or-so years had also had their ups and downs, but his late high school years were a goddamn roller coaster. And not a fun one, either, a terrifying one, like one that just goes all over the place and goes up and down and upside-down and spirals and loops until you finally just fly off the end and become a red splatter on the sidewalk. 

He’d been 15 when he’d first been magic. It had been pretty minor. He’d first noticed it at a party, when it seemed like the run-down barn jammed with sweaty teenagers had become a glittering palace ballroom inhabited by the rich, the powerful, the beautiful. His classmates became royalty, members of old money families, rock stars, old Hollywood movie stars. The world had seemed perfect. 

Gob had attributed it to the alcohol, even though he hadn’t had very much.

A few days later the afterglow faded. The world felt dull and empty. The penthouse became a prison, his parents the wardens, his siblings fellow convicts. School was dragging and dark. The other students felt like exiles and wanderers. 

He had attributed it to the fact that school sucked and his parents were kind of mean sometimes.

The periods of magic and dimness continued, sometimes more intense than the first, sometimes less. Sometimes the magic felt brighter, so bright he couldn’t stand it, like he was drowning in pool being electrocuted. Sometimes the dark times had felt so dark he couldn’t go to school, or to parties, or even to the living room. He couldn’t talk to anyone. Once he’d even yelled at Rosa when she’d tried to open the windows.

His family, including Rosa, suspected he was on drugs. 

The joke was on them, though. He’d never been on drugs. He never felt like he needed them. He’d tried coke once, but that was just a muted version of magic. Sometime alcohol or weed helped to numb things when the magic got too much, and later on he would discover the almost literal magic of forget-me-nows, but that was really the extent of his drug use. 

His first suicide attempt had happened when he was 17 going on 18. It had been shitty timing, really. Two weeks away from his audition to Juilliard. Maybe the pressure had gotten to him. All he knew at the time was that he was tired. It was the darkest, deepest, most despairing pit he’d ever found himself in. He’d been trapped down there, somehow at the very bottom of a bottomless hole, for months. He’d tried crawling out but he wasn’t strong enough. It would never end.

He’d gathered the energy and the courage to get out of bed. He wrote a hasty letter to his parents and left it on the kitchen table before sneaking out to the balcony. 

The night was quiet, except for the muted sounds of some Madonna song drifting towards him from Lindsay’s open bedroom window. It was a little bit windy.

He pulled himself up onto the railing and began walking along it. He’d been doing this as long as he could remember. When he was really young, when they had just moved to the penthouse, his mother had seen him and screamed, and he’d almost fallen. She’d run to him and grabbed him and held him, all the while yelling at him to never do that again, how it was so dangerous, he could have fallen, and then soothing him as he’d started to cry. As he’d gotten older, he’d still done it, just out of sight of his mother. Michael had taken the role of the worrywart, while Lindsay had rolled her eyes and baby Buster had watched in wonder. 

He had hoped that Mom and Dad would tell them what he had written to them in his note. He hoped they would realise that it was all for the best.

Even all these years later he couldn’t help but wonder whether his mother had also remembered that first time he’d gotten too close to the ledge when she had read it.

He remembered staring at the street below, only a few cars driving past. It was late, who would be out at this time? The wind blew. And he jumped.

 

The next thing Gob remembered was waking up in a hospital bed. There was a doctor, or a nurse, he had never figured out which, on his right side, poking him, sticking a needle in his arm, shining a light in his eyes.

When the doctor/nurse had realised he was awake, they’d started talking to him. Telling him that he’d had a nasty fall, would have been a lot worse if the wind hadn’t pushed him onto the downstairs’ neighbours balcony. He was hurt, but he’d live.

He’d live. 

He hadn’t responded. He’d just cried. 

He couldn’t remember when he’d noticed that his mom was on sitting on his other side, a piece of paper with a shoddily written suicide note crumpled under her white knuckles. She’d been angry. She kept telling him how selfish he was and how stupid he’d been. She finally told him to just go to sleep, she’d talk to the doctors, she’d sort everything out.

He had eventually fallen asleep, but not before realising what he’d injured and having a slight breakdown. A broken left wrist and a dislocated right shoulder were not ideal for a pianist’s Juilliard audition. None of this had been part of his plan.

The next morning he’d come out of a drug fuelled sleep to see his mother talking to a doctor he’d never seen before. They hadn’t realised he was awake. He watched as she slipped the woman a cheque, still clutching his note in her other hand.

A different doctor had come along later, asking him how he was feeling, and how he had been injured. He’d told the doctor he’d fallen. He was being stupid. It was all a case of teenage recklessness gone wrong.

His mother had been more affectionate with him then than she’d been in years. She’d held his hand, stroked his hair, even kissed him on the cheek once. It was kinda nice, but also extremely weird. She’d reassured him, telling him that he wasn’t going to end up in some nasty mental patients ward, that he’d come home as soon as possible. She’d even reminded him that they had hundreds of tapes of his piano playing at home that the Juilliard admissions people could listen to, so even if he couldn’t audition in person maybe he could still get there.

He hadn’t. He’d gone to the audition, and painfully plodded through a piece played entirely on the left hand before handing the judges a stack of tapes. His rejection letter came about a month later. 

Since then, he’d settle into a rhythm. Spend as long as possible feeling normal, waiting for the magic to reveal itself properly, outside of illusions. Then trying to keep the magic as long as possible. Then despairing in its absence. It was his version of normal. 

According to Tobias, however, it wasn’t normal. It was evidence that he was sick, that there was something wrong. And maybe Tobias was right. Maybe there was a way to break the cycle.  
Maybe he could climb out of the pit, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gob being a pianist and going to Juilliard has been inspired by/shamelessly stolen from xlessxthanx3x 's amazing fic Étude Op. 25, No. 2 in F minor. 


	6. Delusions of grandeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gob _still_ refuses help, and Tobias kinda loses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda filler, tbh, I have more ideas for the next few chapters so this is really just a way for us to get there. I hope you like it anyway!

After a few weeks of “therapy”, it had become obvious to Tobias that Gob would never actually seek out help.  
Old habits die hard, and when the said habit is denying your mental health problems for 30 years it becomes ridiculously hard to kill.

Every time Tobias thought he’d gotten something through Gob would leave or hang up the phone or shut down or reiterate, once again, that there was nothing medically wrong with him. He’d once reluctantly admitted that his parents may have had an adverse effect on his mental health, but beyond that? Nothing. And after that breakthrough, he'd avoided Tobias for two days.

Tobias had spent all of his time (when he wasn’t working on his screenplay or Gob, that is) attempting to contact his old colleagues back in Boston. He knew that one of them had known a psychiatrist he specialised in the diagnosis and treatment of bipolarity in adults outside the average age of diagnosis. The only problem was he couldn’t remember the psychiatrist’s name, or which of his colleagues had known him. 

And, of course, Gob would resist actually going to speak to him, but Tobias figured he’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

Strangely, it had been Maeby who had found the doctor. Tobias had mentioned it to her on the phone, and the next day she had called him back with a name, a number, and an address. Perhaps she had done it with George Michael’s internet software. However, she’d done it, it was done, and Tobias was grateful and excited for the next step in this treatment plan.

Gob, one the other hand, is resistant to the idea of seeing other people.

“I like this,” he had reluctantly admitted. “This works. It's kinda helping. And I don't have to leave the house.”  
“You know I don't have a medical license anymore, right?”  
“So?”  
“So,” Tobias sighs. Gob was one of the most difficult patients he'd ever worked with. And he'd worked with Lucille Bluth. “That means I can't technically legally be counselling you, or diagnose you, or prescribe medication-”  
“Medication?! No way, I don't want medication!”

Like he'd said. Difficult.

“Tobias, look, I don't need any of that, okay? I'm fine.”

Tobias only needed to raise his eyebrows in response.

“Okay, maybe I've got some issues, but we're working on it. It's fine! I'm fine! We're good! Are we good?”

“We’re not good.”

Gob groaned. “Well, this old college guy has gotta be in, like, Boston or something, right? I’m not going all the way to Boston to get drugs. I can get drugs in Orange Country.”  
“Aha! So you admit you need drugs!”  
“I never said that!”  
“You just did!”  
“No I didn’t!”  
“Yes, you did! And anyhow, he may still be based in Boston, but I’ll call him, you’ll talk to him, and he’ll refer you to someone here. And any old doctor can get you a prescription, it’s really not that hard. How do you think the opioid epidemic happened?”  
“Look, I just don’t wanna go, okay?”

Gob was in a strange stage of both accepting and not accepting his condition. He seemed to have accepted the idea that he might be bipolar but was completely unwilling to actually do anything productive about it. Tobias and Gob had...well, let’s say _different_ ideas of what might help Gob get better. Tobias, for example, believed that therapy and medication might be helpful. Gob, on the other hand, preferred talking to Tobias and then eating copious amounts of parmesan and mustard. This, in Tobias’ professional opinion, was not doing him much good.

“Why don’t you want help? Why won’t you let me help you?”  
“You are helping me! I’m getting better!”  
“Are you?”  
“I am!”

He wasn’t.

“Look at me!” Gob gestured towards his own face. “Not even a little bit of mania since we started this thing! The depressed phase went away pretty quickly. I’m doing good.”

Tobias, finally, had an idea.  
“You know what? We’ll make a deal.”  
“What kind of deal?”

Tobias had not thought this far ahead. 

“If you do this for me…” He paused for what he hoped Gob would think was dramatic effect but was really to give himself enough time to come up with a plan. “If you go to a psychiatrist...I will...let you play yourself when my screenplay becomes a movie!”

Tobias could see the wheels turning in Gob’s brain, could practically feel his excitement.

“You wrote a screenplay?”  
“Yes. It’s autobiographical.”  
“Is there any actual chance of it becoming a movie?”  
“Sure! There’s always a chance!”  
“Hm. I’m tempted, Tobias, but I’m gonna say no.”

Perhaps it was that Tobias had finally had enough of Gob’s stubbornness, or perhaps he was just upset about the veiled criticism of his screenplay, but something inside of him snapped.  
He wasn’t sure when he started yelling, but it had happened somewhere in there.  
He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. Whatever it was, Gob didn’t look happy about it.  
He thought he was saying something about looking after yourself or something, and he thought he was swearing a lot, but by the time he came back to himself and started actually processing his own words Gob was already interrupting.

“Okay, okay, Jesus fucking Christ!” Gob yelled. “I’ll go to the dumb psychiatrist, God. You’re insane.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Not a compliment,” Gob clarified, although Tobias hadn’t taken it as one. “Can we still you know, talk and stuff?”  
“Of course!” Tobias exclaimed, slightly taken aback. “Yes, we can work out a plan. You’ll have regular appointments with your psychiatrist, and then outside of those, you can talk to me! We’ll make therapy fun!”

Gob’s smile betrayed both his anxiety and his appreciation (at least, Tobias chose to believe that he was conveying some appreciation). “Okay. Fine. Call the guy.”  
“What, now?”  
“Yes, you idiot. Come on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed a trend in bipolar Gob fics, and that trend is that Gob very rarely gets help. And when he does, he gets diagnosed and put on meds and then goes off them right away. What I want to do here is not do that, and instead have him actually get better. In this house we support medication and CBT! We support recovery! We stan mental health professionals!
> 
> And by the way, Maeby's super secret way of finding the psychiatrist was Googling "bipolar specialist psyciatrist boston". She's a smart girl.


	7. Lamotrigine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gob and Tony have their first date since the start of Gob's treatment. It's surprisingly lowkey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cheesy 80s song mentioned in this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sULb253yvmo

It was a surprisingly cold night, considering that it was May in Southern California. Nonetheless, Gob and Tony had decided to go to the beach, because that’s what you do in California. 

Tony, who was not Californian, had tried to go to the main beach and Gob had almost died laughing. The main beach is where the tourists are. It’s always packed, and everyone is annoying. No, what they needed was Bluth Beach.

Bluth Beach was the “private” stretch of beach he and his siblings had found as kids. He knew now that it wasn’t really “private”, it was just separated from the main beach by a hill and some rocks. He’d been 12 the first time he’d led the others over the rocky terrain, and it had felt like Mount Fucking Everest. Michael had been behind him, worrying the whole time, wondering aloud about the legalities of the situation. After Michael had come Lindsay, telling him to shut up, before complaining about the possibility of broken nails or hidden serial killer dens. About halfway there, Buster had had some trouble climbing over the rocks, and Gob had had to double back to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way. It had been a triumphant day for all four of them the day Buster had finally made the trip on his own.

And now, over thirty years later, he was there again with his boyfriend. He’d talked to his therapist, and she’d suggested talking to Tony, and now they had decided they were officially boyfriends, but the kind of boyfriends where no one else knows except your therapist. 

So, they had talked, and they had scheduled a date, and decided to go to the beach, and everything was kind of perfect.

“This place is great!” Tony exclaimed. “There’s, like, no one else here.”  
Gob nodded. “That’s why it’s a private beach. Now pick a spot.”  
“We’ve got a whole beach, how do I pick one spot?”

It took nearly half an hour to teach Tony how to pick an optimal beach spot, but they’d finally settled on one and sat down. It was cold (at least for Gob, Tony was from Minnesota and constantly made fun of Gob’s inability to function without sunlight), the light pollution was not as bad as normal, the sea was calm and beautiful, someone further down the beach was blasting cheesy 80s music, and Gob’s medication was working.

Earlier that day he’d been freaking out a little. He’d been working with his therapist at recognising the signs of oncoming manic and depressive periods, and he’d woke up this morning recognising the beginnings of a manic episode. The freaking out hadn’t helped it. Calling Tobias, who reminded him to take his medication and try to balance out his positive and negative thoughts and just breathe, had helped. 

He’d been apprehensive about medication from the beginning. When the doctor had started talking to him about a drug called Lamictal that was supposed to help, he’d agreed to try with it with the expectation that it wouldn’t work and he could just stop taking it. The doctor telling him about the sometimes fatal rash that some people developed while taking it hadn’t helped his apprehension.

But he’d tried it.  
And it _worked._

Today was a perfect example. His brain was still racing, he was still in what his psychiatrist called an “elevated mood”, but it was almost muted. The meds had taken the edge off. They’d also given him insomnia and a constantly dry mouth, but that was a small price to pay for mental stability.  
Mental stability was pretty enjoyable. Mental stability was allowing him to sit on Bluth Beach and hold Tony’s hand and talk to him rather than running into the water or pacing up and down the beach or climbing the biggest rock he could find.  
It was allowing him to recognise that even not talking was kind of nice. Lying on the beach next to Tony, listening to the sound of the world but not contributing to it. 

_“...Over and over and over again,_  
_We’ve got two strong hearts,_  
_We stick together like the honey and the bee,_  
_You and me…”_

Gob had been so relaxed he’d barely realised that Tony had started kissing him. Not that he was complaining, obviously, he just hadn’t noticed at first. Put that on the list of awesome stuff that was happening tonight.

Eventually they had to break apart to breathe. Tony’s hand was still in Gob’s hair. Gob was still cupping Tony’s cheek in his hand. Gob thought he saw a camera flash come from over the hill, but there was no way. It was a private beach.

Gob would never have thought he could even have that great a time without magic (either the illusion kind or the manic kind) being involved. Life can really surprise you like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is about to get real in the next few chapters and I'm so fucking sorry.  
> Fun fact: the medication Gob is taking here (Lamictal, a.k.a lamotrigine) is the same medication I've recently started taking to control my epilepsy. It is used as both a mood stabiliser and an anti-convulsant, and Lamictal-induced insomnia is the main reason I'm still awake at half past midnight writing this. And that thing about the sometimes fatal rash that some people develop? That's true. That's a real thing. Medication is scary. But hey, we can deal with a little dry mouth in exchange for mania and seizures, you know?  
> Anyway, I just wanted to write something a little bit more lowkey and a little bit sweet before we get into what I've got planned next. This chapter is kind of part one of a two-parter so part two will be up soon.


	8. Stressful life events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The only thought in his mind was a repeating chorus of _Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out_ , which of course was only making him freak the fuck out."

The next morning Gob was feeling pretty good.  
He’d been on a great date with his boyfriend, the slight mania he’d started to feel the day before was already subsiding, and his car radio started playing ‘The Final Countdown’ as soon as he’d turned it on.

He couldn’t remember exactly what he had come to the grocery store for (his medication had kinda done a number on his memory), so he just spent some time walking around, picking out whatever seemed good. It was mostly cheese, condiments, and a couple of things of candy beans. He spied a magazine he vaguely remembered seeing in his mom’s penthouse bearing a headline about “the latest Bluth scandal” and, excited to read about another hilarious way his sister was ruining her political career, decided to get that too.

He absent-mindedly checked his phone and noticed that he’d missed a call from Tobias, but he decided to wait until he got home to call him back.

Calling back Tobias was delayed when he finally got home to read about Lindsay’s scandal. Only it wasn’t Lindsay who was in the magazine. It was him.

More specifically, it was a picture of him kissing Tony. 

Shit. 

The only thought in his mind was a repeating chorus of _Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out_ , which of course was only making him freak the fuck out. 

This was very very bad.  
He should call Tobias.  
But he didn’t want Tobias to know.  
But Tobias would know soon anyway.  
Oh, god, _everyone_ would know soon.

But they might not, he told himself. It’s not even a popular magazine. The only people who even read it were old, WASP-y rich housewives who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives. People like his mother.

Holy fucking shit, he was _not_ ready for his mom to find out.

He’d always known the model home was built badly, but this was the first time he noticed that the walls seemed to close in on you.

His phone started to make noise as his throat started to close up.

 

THREE MISSED CALLS from TONY

TEXT from TONY: Did you see it? Because I saw it. I thought it was just in the magazine but hey turns out those things are online now so it's kind of everywhere. Call me.

FIVE MISSED CALLS from TOBIAS

ONE MISSED CALL from MICHAEL

TEXT from MAEBY: hey uncle gob. this is gonna sound weird but i saw something about you online. you probably know what it was. are you okay?

ONE MISSED CALL from LINDSAY

TEXT from MICHAEL: Hi Gob. Are you okay? GM told me what happened. Are you okay? -Michael

TEXT from GEORGE MICHAEL: Hey Uncle Gob. You good? 

TEXT from TONY: Please call me.

TEXT from MAEBY: have i ever told you im bi? is that helpful in this situation?

TEXT from LINDSAY: Have you talked to Mom? Are you okay?

TEXT from LINDSAY: I know I’m technically a Republican now but I swear I don’t hate you.

ONE MISSED CALL from LINDSAY

ONE MISSED CALL from BUSTER

TEXT from BUSTER: Heyyyuyy brither. I”m coning ober.Mom doesnt kniw yte.

 

It was Buster’s typo-riddled text that finally snapped Gob out of his haze.

It wasn't the typos themselves that got him. Buster was usually smart enough to spell correctly, but he insisted on texting with his fake hand and autocorrect was not equipped to deal with that shit.  
But Mom didn't know yet.  
By some fucking miracle Mom didn't know yet. 

 

After spending an indeterminate amount of time pacing around the living room, there was a knock on the door. He didn’t want to open it. He didn’t wanna see Buster, or have to talk to him. He just wasn’t ready to talk to his family yet. He wasn’t fucking ready for any of this.

“Gob? Are you in there?” 

Huh. He hadn't expected Lindsay.

He didn’t really have time to process this unexpected development before Lindsay was somehow inside the house and throwing her arms around his neck.

That was also unexpected.

“I love you,” said Lindsay, her voice muffled by Gob’s shirt. That wasn’t something their family usually said. This was a very weird day.  
“Love you too?”

Today had to be a dream.

She was still hugging him. He wasn’t sure whether or not to hug her back. It was all really awkward.

“Linds, what are you doing?"  
"I’m supporting you, idiot. That’s what sisters do.”  
“Do they?”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay...so how are you?”  
“I’m fine. How are you?”  
“Great...can you let go of me now?”

She finally let go, just in time for the doorbell to ring.

“Ugh, that’s probably Buster. He said he was coming over.”  
Lindsay looked confused. “Buster? Really? How’d he get away from Mom?”  
Gob shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it. He'd been a little distracted. 

There were voices coming from outside the door, but neither of them belonged to Buster.

“Surely you have a key.”  
“I do, but I must have left it...I don’t know, somewhere, don’t you have a key?”  
“Why would I have a key?”  
“I don’t know, Tobias, maybe because you live here?”  
“I don’t live here.”  
“...where do you live? I could have sworn you lived here.”

As Michael and Tobias squabbled over who lived where, Lindsay lead Gob to the couch and sat him down before going to open the door. 

Gob could hear them whispering. That was never a good sign.

Lindsay had taken his phone. He couldn't even call Tony.

Lindsay reentered the room, Michael and Tobias in tow, while Gob was doing some breathing exercises his therapist had taught him so that he wouldn't freak the fuck out. He couldn’t stop his hands twitching. 

“Heyy” Michael said, in the exact same voice he had used when George Michael was little and scaped his knee. “You doing okay, buddy?”

Tobias just waved and gave him a sort of half smile, accompanied by a hand gesture that he assumed was meant to be a supportive thumbs up.

“Do you all read that stupid magazine?” asked Gob. This wasn't what he'd meant to say, or what he'd planned to say, or what they had wanted him to say. It had just kind of slipped out, but now he was kind of interested to know the answer.

“Maeby told me,” Tobias was the first to volunteer an answer. “She saw it on some internet thing...maybe Facebook or one of those other sites, I don't know for sure. But the point is, she found it and she texted me to see if I'd heard from you.”

Lindsay nodded as if to say the same thing had happened to her. “I also heard it from one of my campaign advisors. But I got it from Maeby first.”

“George Michael told me,” added Michael. “Pretty much the same story just a different kid.”

Gob was consistently surprised by his nephew and niece. It seemed like a miracle that his siblings, _his_ little brother and sister, had raised two pretty good kids.

Tobias sat on the coffee table directly across from him.  
“How are you doing?”  
This was not a family question this time. This was a psychiatrist question. Or analrapist or theralyst or whatever Tobias was calling it these days.

“I'm...well, I was starting to get a little manic yesterday but it started to kind of pass earlier today, but now I think it's starting to come back and I'm trying really, _really_ hard to stop myself from freaking out and so far it's working but I don't know how long I can keep it up, especially...especially if...if I have to talk to t-to...to m-to m…”  
“To your mother.”  
Gob nodded.  
“Okay,” said Tobias. “Give me your phone, I'll call your doctor and set up an emergency appointment, she should be able to fit you in.”  
“Lindsay has it.”

It was then that he noticed Michael and Lindsay’s confusion, and it dawned on him that he hadn’t actually told them about the whole bipolar thing yet. Fuck.

He was saved from explaining by the sound of his youngest brother attempting to open a door with his hook.

Michael rolled his eyes and dutifully went to let in their youngest brother. Lindsay looked at Gob and opened her mouth, but he interrupted her.  
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Just...just don’t say anything.”  
Lindsay just nodded.

As Buster and Michael entered the living room, Gob couldn’t help but notice that his baby brother was picking what looked like bits of paper out of the grooves of his hook. That thing still gave Gob the creeps. It stirred up too many childhood memories of the smell of fake blood and the sound of ripping limbs and clutching onto his screaming siblings for dear life. He liked to think he’d gotten better at hiding it, but the revulsion was definitely still there. He hated it.

“Heyyyy brother,” Buster greeted him. “You okay?”  
Gob shrugged. “What did Mom say?”  
“I thought I told you, Mom doesn’t know,” said Buster. “It was a close call though. I went to get the mail this morning and I saw the Balboa Bay Window, and I looked inside it and I saw and I thought ‘oh, boy, I bet Gob doesn’t want Mom to see this’ so I ripped that page out. But now she’s on the phone complaining to the magazine company about a missing page so you might want to talk to her soon.”

The thought of telling their mother was more terrifying than every J. Walter Weatherman incident combined. It was scarier than Maeby’s Gangie movies, more horrifying than any horror movie could even attempt to be. Lucille Bluth was not exactly a friend of the LGBT community, which was actually a little weird because her general air of drama, glamour, and barb-like wit would’ve usually made her a hit with the gays. She just didn’t have a good track record with them - or with most marginalised groups, come to think of it. Neither of his parents did, they were both kinda racist. But at least their racism was a little more subtle, or at least it had gotten more subtle since he was younger. They were way more openly hateful back in the 80s. Most people were. Hell, MTV hadn’t even played songs by black artists until like...was it 1984 or 1985? It was definitely a Michael Jackson song. What was the song? God, he’d watched it as it happened, why the fuck couldn’t he remember it? That had been a great song but Jesus fucking Christ his thoughts were getting really rapid and really out of control.  
Hadn’t David Bowie called MTV out on that whole thing? Was David Bowie gay? Gob vaguely remembered something about him coming out of the closet and then going back in and fucking hell why couldn’t he stop thinking about fucking MTV?  
The breathing exercises weren’t working. His meds weren’t working. His mind wasn’t working, but for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the first video MTV had ever played had been ‘Video Killed The Radio Star’. They really got the message out fast. It was such a shame they didn’t actually play music anymore.  
Gob didn’t know when he’d gotten to the kitchen or why he was there. Tobias was handing him back his phone and saying something. The bees were drowning out his voice.  
“Did you take your meds today?” Tobias repeated.  
Gob nodded.  
“You can have another one if you want,” Tobias said. “You’re on a pretty low dosage anyway, you don’t have to worry about an overdose.”

Gob hadn’t even thought about overdosing. He hadn’t realised it was possible. He knew medicines were technically drugs, but surely drugs that were meant to help couldn’t hurt you. What a weird idea. Too much help equals death. Bizarre. Actually it sounded a little like Michael.  
God, Michael had used Gob’s last forget-me-now. Man, that would have been really fucking helpful right about now.  
He had to talk to his family. To his _parents._ And soon too. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t in the right state of mind, he’d just fuck the whole thing up. Well, he was gonna fuck it up anyway. There was no _way_ this could end well. He wasn’t in the state of mind for this. He might’ve been getting sort of manic, and not the good type of manic, like the happy-magical-the-world-is-my-oyster-and-I’m-a-pearl-diver kind of manic, the oh-my-God-I-can’t-think-straight-I-can’t-sleep-and-I-kind-of-want-to-punch-everyone-who-talks-to-me kind of manic.

Tobias was holding out Gob’s phone. He took it.  
“She said she can fit you in at 1 tomorrow. I told her that was okay. The receptionist seemed very suspicious of me, I can’t see why. Anyhoo, she’ll see you then. I’ll take you, if you want.”

Gob nodded again.

And then his mom called him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i end on a cliffhanger for dramatic effect or because i ran out of ideas? its a mystery.  
> this was long as fuck, sorry about that.  
> figuring out everyone's texting styles here was weirdly fun. michael texts like my dad.  
> and sorry for taking so long to update this, its assignment time at uni so im kinda swamped but ill try my best to update as soon as i can.  
> thanks for all the support on this, i love you guys so much. bye.


	9. Finding a support system

“I think you have to answer it when it does that,” Tobias offered.  
“Really, Tobias? Thanks, I had no idea how phones work.”  
“You need to talk to her.”  
“I don’t want to.”  
“You’ll have to at some point!”  
“Unless…”  
“Unless?”  
“Unless I kill myse-”  
“No, bad idea. That kills people.”  


Gob sighed. Apparently, his ideas weren’t really any good right now. His brain was really not doing him any favours. Stupid fucking brain. It hadn’t been a very good brain to begin with, but with this whole unbalanced neurochemistry thing it was really letting him down.

The phone had stopped ringing. He’d forgotten to answer it. The relief he felt was palpable. And then it started again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, stop it!” he yelled at his phone, as if that would actually do anything. Before he knew it, Tobias was pulling his phone out of his hand, pressing ‘Accept Call’, and shoving the phone against Gob’s ear. 

“Gob, you will not believe what happened to me today,” his mother said. She sounded almost normal. Like nothing had happened. “Buster brought me my Balboa Bay Window, as usual, and - well, first of all, I saw a ‘Bluth family scandal’ on the front page and thought ‘Oh god, what’s Lindsay done this time?’, but then I opened it up and there was an entire page missing. Just gone! So I called up the company to complain and-”

Holy shit, she really didn’t know.

“That’s great Mom, but why are you telling me about this? You never call me about this kind of thing.” She paused. “Michael’s not returning my calls. And I can’t find Buster and I thought that if he had run away with anyone without telling me about it it would either be you or Lucille Austero, that BITCH.”

He sighed. “Yeah, Buster’s here. So are Lindsay and Michael and Tobias.” Speaking of Tobias, his brother-in-law was staring at him intently. Almost creepily.

Scratch, that _very_ creepily.

“Listen, Mom,” Gob sighed, gathering up as much courage as he could. “Are you....are you doing anything today because, um...I kinda need to...talk...to...you.”  
“Oh God, who did you knock up?”  
“No one, Mom.”  
“Property damage? Murder? Give me something here, Gob.”  
“No it’s nothing like that, Mom, it’s...it’s not something I can say over the phone. I’ll be over soon, okay?”  
“Are you alright?”  
Gob could’ve sworn he heard some semblance of what he thought might be “motherly concern” in her voice. He hadn’t heard it in his mother’s voice in years.  
“I’m okay. I’ll be over there soon.” Looking up, he saw Tobias and Michael looking at him expectantly. “And the others probably will be too, judging by the way they’re staring at me.”  
“Alright, fine. But I swear to god if you’ve done anything that will make us look even worse than we already do, I will set you on fire and then myself. I’ll see you soon, bye!”  
She hung up before he’d had the chance to respond to that last comment.  
“We’re going to mom’s,” he announced. 

* * *

Gob hadn’t really expected to come out to his mother with his siblings and brother-in-law literally right behind him, but it didn’t look like he had much of a choice.

Lucille was sitting in her usual chair in the penthouse living room, vodka martini in hand, staring at Gob expectantly as he paced back and forth around the room, his hands twitching.  
Lindsay, Tobias and Buster were sprawled across the couches, also looking at Gob.  
Michael was in the kitchen, nervously making people drinks. As if that would help.

“Are you ever going to speak or shall we just sit here for another few hours?” their mother asked. “You know I’m really not confident that you haven’t broken the law. I paid so much bail money when you were younger, I’m sick of it.”  
“I didn’t break the law.”  
“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem sure. You seem very ju-”  
“I’m gay.”

It dawned on Gob that he’d never actually said the words out loud before. It felt kind of nice. It was like a huge weight was lifted on his shoulders and then another even heavier weight was dropped back on because his mother hadn’t said anything yet. He was still pacing.

Lindsay made a space for him on her couch and indicated for him to sit down. He did.  
“Linds, I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”  
“You won’t.”  
Lindsay’s occasional bluntness usually didn’t help, but in this situation it sort of did.  
Mom was still silent, a look of contemplation on her face.

“Was that what was in that magazine? The ‘Bluth family scandal’?”  
Gob nodded.  
“Hm. I thought it was something to do with Lindsay.”  
“Me too!”  
Lindsay scoffed. “Why does everyone think it was me?”

“So, Buster, you ripped out the page so I wouldn’t see it, is that right?”  
Buster nodded.

She still hadn’t addressed the actual issue at hand, and so Gob did his usual impulsive thing and said what was on his mind.  
“Do you hate me?”  
His mother actually looked...almost shocked. It almost seemed like her eyebrows would be raised if she hadn’t had her most recent facelift.  
“No, I don’t...Gob…” She sighed. “Of course I don’t hate you. Truthfully, I’m not thrilled, but...well, I’m not really surprised. I really should have known, you always were too interested in Freddie Mercury.”

This was not how he had expected any of this to go. It all kind of felt like a dream. Then again, that could’ve been the mania talking. Speaking of which…

“You know, while we’re being honest - or at least, while _I’m_ being honest, while you guys sit around and judge me, there’s anoth-”  
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Tobias interrupted. “It’s been a stressful day already, you don’t want to put yourself under much more mental strain."  
“Sorry, but what the fuck is he talking about?” Michael asked.  
“I’m trying to tell you, shut up.” God, Michael could be infuriating sometimes.  
“I’m kinda bipolar. Well, kinda isn’t the right word, I’m definitely bipolar, do you know what that means? Do you understand wha-what that is, because I didn’t until Tobias explained it to me and even then it took me a while to really get it, and by then I’d already been diagnosed, which wasn’t that long ago, actually. Am I rambling? I feel like I’m rambling, Tobias am I rambling?”  
Tobias nodded.  
“Shit, sorry.”  
Lindsay raised her hand. “I don't know what 'bipolar' means.”  
“Like, manic-depressive. The mental illness. The one where you’re high one day and wanna die the next day. Did that almost rhyme?”  
Michael had that look on his face, his I-don’t-want-to-say-I-told-you-so-but-I-told-you-so-ha-fucking-ha face. Lindsay looked like she was a robot processing information from a chip. Mom was staring at her vodka martini.

No one spoke for an uncomfortably long time.

“So,” Lucille began, breaking the silence. “What are you doing about it?”  
“Uh, I’m going to therapy, and I’m taking medication.”  
“They’re not...they’re not sending you to some...some sanitorium or something?”  
“No, I’m still part of society and everything, I just take the meds everyday and talk to a doctor every other week.”  
“Would it have been better...should they have caught it earlier?”  
They both knew what she was talking about. Neither of them would ever acknowledge it. At least not for a few more therapy sessions.  
“It might have been a little better but...you couldn’t have known, Mom.”

His mother nodded and went back to her martini.

“Does your boyfriend know about the whole bipolar thing?” Buster asked.  
“Yeah, he knows. I figured he should. My therapist agreed.”  
“You like this therapist? They’re helping you?” Mom asked.  
Gob nodded. His mother nodded back.

The room’s atmosphere was super weird. He felt like he was giving some sort of press conference, waiting for people to ask questions, waiting for a specific, dreaded question, and trying to answer them in a way that would make him look as good as possible.

“I’d just like to say,” announced Michael. “This makes a lot of things make a lot of sense.”  
Typical, unhelpful Michael.  
“And,” he continued. “I’m really sorry we didn’t do anything to help you earlier. If we’d known…” His voice trailed off. The others were nodding their agreement.  
“Yeah, I get it,” Gob said. “It’s okay. I didn’t even know, I didn’t expect...you know, you didn’t have to...to...t-you know, you didn’t...didn’t need to…”

“Have you called Tony back yet?” Buster interrupted.  
“Is that all you can think about?” Michael chastised him.  
Buster shrugged. “They’re cute.”  
Gob had to agree, but “No, I haven’t. Shit, I should probably do that.”

“Wait, you’re dating Tony Wonder? Are all magicians gay?”  
Gob stared at his mother. “No, Mom, it’s just a coincidence.”  
“Why are you still here? Go call him.”  
“Mom, I can’t -”  
“Go!”

Gob was reluctant to leave the room, convinced that everyone would start saying horrible things as soon as he turned his back. Michael and Lindsay would laugh at how crazy he was. His mom would start writing him out of her will. Buster...well, Buster wouldn’t say much but he wouldn’t stop anyone. And Tobias might not even notice  
But the fear was kind of overwritten by a slightly desperate need to tell Tony everything.  
This would make a great story someday, once his thoughts became linear enough to tell it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we don't acknowledge George Sr.  
> I just want to make a quick note about Blunder content in this fic (and any other semi-sequels I might write in the same/similar verse): There's not gonna be much. Don't get me wrong, I love these dumb gay magicians with all of my heart but I really wanted the focus of this fic to be on Gob and his mental health and his family and that is why I didn't actually write the phone conversation with Tony at the end. Sorry.  
> Anyway, hope you liked this chapter. I'll upload the next chapter (/epilogue) someday.


	10. Living a full life

When Gob started therapy, he thought that he’d be cured. He thought that he’d take his medication, talk to his therapist every two weeks and Tobias whenever he needed to, and then one day he’d just wake up and he wouldn’t be depressed or manic, he’d finally just be normal. Stable. Average. Okay.  
It turns out mental illnesses don’t really work like that.

So, instead of focussing on being cured, he was just focussing on getting better. And weirdly, it was working.  
He still spent days in a row unable to get out of bed. He still had sleepless nights and days filled with magic and bees. But they were a lot less intense. His malfunctioning brain was improving.

Therapy was...weird. His therapist wanted to talk about a lot of things that he just wasn’t ready to talk about yet. She was weirdly okay with that. She didn’t expect anything out of him. She just wanted to talk to him. It was fucking bizarre.  
She taught him to recognise signs of oncoming episodes, and how to use the people around him to combat it. When he started to feel depressed, he’d talk to Tony. When he was starting to feel manic and had big, grandiose ideas, he ran them by at least two people before acting on them. He’d learned to make sure Tobias and Lindsay weren’t those people. They could be just as impulsive as him sometimes.

Things were still hard. He was doing everything he could to prevent getting too depressed again, but it was difficult to actually try and stop the mania. Mania was _exciting_ and _fun_ , and almost addictive. It really was like being on drugs. But, like most drugs, the crash after the high was horrific. Almost enough to stop doing it, but not quite.

Tobias had assured him that his diagnosis wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, which Gob had found very hard to believe at the time. Tobias had said that he could still have a life, a _good_ life. Gob had never felt like he had a good life before. And after a few months of actively trying to get better, to _be_ better, he was starting to think that if anything, this whole thing had given him the chance to have a good life.

He’d spent years, decades suffering in silence, thinking nothing was wrong while feeling like everything was wrong, unsure of what the fuck was making him feel like he did. Just ignoring the problem, burying it under piles of alcohol and women and yachts. In his greatest illusion of all time, he’d made all the evidence disappear. 

And then Tobias had revealed the trick and brought it all up again and he couldn’t hide it anymore, he couldn’t ignore it anymore, and life was somehow better than it used to be. Who would’ve thought that dealing with problems would actually _help_ with them?

Gob knew he’d never really be okay. He’d always have to deal with magic only he could feel and bees only he could see and darkness his eyes could never adjust to.

He’d never be cured. But he was determined to be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's over and now I'm a little sad.  
> I hope you've liked this. I've definitely enjoyed the journey.  
> Thank you all for reading. Bye.


End file.
